


Stand and Deliver

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: Plunkett and Macleane (1999)
Genre: Early Work, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-05-15
Updated: 2000-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A discussion between Captain James Macleane and William Plunkett—highwaymen and partners in crime—stemming from Macleane's question: "Have you never been in love?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand and Deliver

**Author's Note:**

> **Original A/N:** My deepest thanks to my beta reader, Miriam Heddy, and to Catherine and Ruth, whose knowledge of the mid-eighteenth century far outstrips my own. I couldn't have completed the story without them.
> 
> This story originally appeared in the zine _Lightning Strikes Twice_.
> 
>  **AO3 A/N:** This is an example of my very early fanfic. For historical purposes I'm leaving it as it was originally posted, including the summary.

> True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about but few have seen.  
>  —Francois, Duc de La Rochefoucauld

"Have you never been in love?" I had asked Plunkett. I didn't realise at the time that I had never been in love myself, not properly in love.

Rebecca hadn't lasted long, the excitement she derived from our life as outlaws never quite making up for the lack of funds and the near-complete absence, in the Colonies, of the luxuries to which she was accustomed. She should have stayed with Rochester, where she could hold her would-be suitors in disdain and he could 'corrupt the youth' of London. As it was, in less than a month we had pooled our resources and bought her a passage home. The pain of our parting was momentary.

So if the breathless excitement, the pounding heart, and the ache in my gut at the sight of her raven hair and womanly form had not been love, then what did constitute that most elusive of emotions?

It was this that I asked of Plunkett as we relaxed in our hired room. A bare half-hour previous the sun had fallen beyond the trees, and only the golden twilight was left creeping across the roughly hewn floorboards. The innkeeper's daughter had laid the fire when she fetched away our supper dishes, so all that was left was the lighting of the tinder.

At my question, Plunkett looked up at me from where he crouched at the hearth. The glance was brief and the expression in his brown eyes unreadable, and then he had turned back to his task – lighting a brimstone match from his tinderbox, then holding it to the wood shavings until they caught. He remained staring into the fire for such a long time – the faintest of frowns furrowing his brow – that I was certain I had either offended or hurt him in some fashion.

"My apologies, Will," I said, suddenly realising my mistake. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories." I'd nearly forgot about the death of his beloved Mary. Obviously this was what was troubling him – with my careless words, I'd opened a still-tender wound.

"No, it's not that." He shook his head slightly, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. Brushing it back absently, he added, "I was looking for the right words."

He stood and moved the few feet to his chair, taking up his knife and whittling wood from the seat before sitting down. "Love's when someone means more to you than your own life, right? When you'd risk everything to make 'em happy, even if it means losing 'em to someone else. Or when you do things you swore you'd never do, and do 'em gladly. It's standing by someone no matter what.

"It doesn't have to be fireworks. Love can be quiet and comfortable, like a blanket round your shoulders and a fire to warm yourself at." Plunkett stopped, looking embarrassed by his oratory, the words so different from his usual rough conversation.

It was by far the longest speech I'd heard from him, and I was greatly surprised at the level of eloquence he could command when he put his mind to it. Not quite a gentleman, but certainly no country clod.

As I lit my pipe, savouring the first bracing breath of the fragrant tobacco, I thought about what he'd said regarding love, about how it felt and how it made you behave. I remembered the feeling in my gut when Chance had raised his pistol and aimed; I'd very nearly thrown myself in the path of the bullet. As soon as the thought had occurred, the expression on Plunkett's face as he had looked into the thief-taker general's eyes – frightened but defiant – had stopped me. He had accepted an honourable challenge and was prepared to see it through despite Chance's cheating. What right had I to dishonour him?

That, then, was love. But was it not merely the love two brothers have for one another, a love between friends and partners? So I found that I still didn't know what love was, and said as much to him.

"The difference's what your John Thomas does, innit?" He took up his tankard of ale from the table and drank a draught from it before continuing. "If he's up an' eager for it, then it's love and lust – romantic love, if you like; if he's not, then it's brotherly love."

How straightforward he made it sound! "But desire is no guarantee of love," I argued, determined to find an answer to my curiosity or beat the subject to death in the attempt. "No more than love is a guarantee of desire."

"You can have lust without love," he replied simply, "just like you can have love without lust."

Of course. But what really drew my interest was the combining of the two. I had experienced each on its own, having been overtaken by lust a time or three and loving Plunkett – for his life was as dear to me as my own and by his definition that would be love – in a brotherly fashion.

But would the two never come together for me? I had lived twenty-odd years already and had never truly known that most complete feeling of romantic love. Plunkett, who was but a handful of years my senior, had known it in the form of his beloved Mary. What had he that the fates should give him such a gift, yet they should not grant the same to me?

This question in my mind, I studied his profile in the firelight, the familiarity of it oddly comforting. What I could not see for the darkness, I knew from memory. He was not unhandsome, with an aquiline nose and fine, fair skin that was marred only by the small scar beneath his right eyebrow – a flaw that was, of its own right, charming. A bit coarse of feature and common, perhaps, but the warmth of his smile was more than adequate compensation. He walked with a certain unconscious natural grace, a stride that put me in mind of a predatory beast. And his form – what of it I had seen unclothed, at least – was free from any fault.

At this lengthy consideration I felt a twinge in my gut, that very singular sensation that was the onset of arousal. Did I desire Plunkett, then? It would appear so, though I'd never had such wanton thoughts for one of my own sex before this moment.

Disturbed, and still unsure of my own feelings in the matter, I posed yet another question to Plunkett. "And what of the likes of Rochester, those who 'swing every way', as he is fond of putting it?"

He shrugged, the movement eloquent, but his expression was still lost in the shadows. "They love," he answered, "they lust. Not very different from the rest of us."

"So, to your mind there's no wrong in it?" I pressed.

"It's just twice as many ways to get the pox," he said, his voice tinged with laughter.

"For which you would prescribe 'Plunkett's Patent Pox Cure'?"

My wit struck true and drew a laugh from him. It was a sound that pleased my ears, and I was surprised to discover myself eager to be the cause of further merriment on his part. When had Plunkett become so much to me, the centre of my attentions and desires?

On the subject of desires, my mind began to wander, posing all manner of questions. For instance, how different would be the feel of a man's mouth against my own? Plunkett's lips were less full than Rebecca's; they would be strong and firm rather than soft and pliant. And would his night-time whiskers chafe against me unpleasantly, or would it be merely another sensation to add to our coupling?

And then there was the fundamental question of what to do and how to do it. Rochester had once threatened to demonstrate to me just exactly how two men know one another's bodies. I'd declined, with conviction. Undaunted, he'd regaled me with tales of men and boys he'd had. Although I was unsure what proportion of Rochester's stories were to be believed (after all, poor Plunkett had had such a dire time with a mere ruby), they would probably serve as a guide for my novice efforts.

But what of the gentler side of courting? Would a man be swayed by poetic words dripping from a honeyed tongue? No, such is the obvious difference in temperament between the sexes that I knew the sweet words and exaggerated compliments with which I wooed many a woman would be unwelcome if spoken to a man.

As well, it would be far riskier simply to approach a man when my intent was amorous. To even broach the subject was to invite mockery at the least and perhaps even injury, should the man approached not be that way inclined and offended that I had presumed he was.

Plunkett, though, would not be likely to resort to physical violence. He had simply brushed off Rochester's flirtations as if they were of no import whatsoever. No, far worse than the threat of his fists would be enduring his scorn or, worse, pity.

Rochester, in the telling of his anecdotes, had made it sound so easy, but the more thought I gave it, the more daunting the prospect seemed. How could I know, without asking, whether Plunkett would be amenable to my asking? Just as I had not fancied Rochester, though I could appreciate his comeliness in an aesthetic fashion, perhaps Plunkett did not fancy me.

I had always thought myself attractive, enjoying my own reflection before embarking on a night of gallantry. To support that notion, I'd never found myself lacking in companionship; even while gaoled I'd regularly been obliged to fuck the warden's daughter.

But how would another man view me? Rochester had apparently found me attractive – enough, at least, to make advances – but did Plunkett? I tried to envision myself as he would see me: close-cropped hair that was too dark to be blond and too light to be brown, features not fine enough to be aristocratic (though I could almost pass as such with cosmetics to lighten my complection, darken my lashes, and redden my lips), and eyes that were neither brown nor green, but rather some odd combination of the two.

In all, I decided, I was entirely unsure of the origin of my appeal when it came to women, let alone men. Perhaps my healthy endowment was responsible, or my skilful wielding of that organ. Or perhaps my even features and strong body were, if not overwhelming in their appeal, at least adequate.

Having thus come to some form of conclusion, I sat back to watch Plunkett, the firelight sending shadows dancing across his face.

"What's on your mind now, Jamie?" he asked, his eyes still firmly fixed on his woodworking.

In my startlement I answered him honestly. "Cataloguing your charms and contemplating the odds of being allowed to avail myself of them."

The selfsame moment that the words had passed my lips, I knew my mistake. The silence stretched as we both sat motionless – myself out of fear, and the current direction of Plunkett's thoughts I didn't even wish to contemplate. Just as the silence was becoming more than I could bear, he stood and took his leave without further word, the click of the closing door the only sound.

I quietly cursed myself for the indiscretion, wishing vainly for some way to take back my ill-considered words. My next decision, which I was determined would be given more thought, was whether to follow him into the darkness of the Virginia night, or to stay my hand and trust that his comradely feelings for me would bring him back in good time.

If I were to pursue him, I would likely incur his wrath rather than his appreciation. Instead, I decided to give him such time as he needed to determine his course. Overall, I thought it likely that whatever I might do or say, Plunkett would remain my steadfast friend. To prove the truth of it, I had only to remember his daring rescue, which saved me dancing the Tyburn jig. And, if that evidence was insufficient, he had also risked life and limb by returning to the scene of an ambush and, amidst volleys of gunfire, had dragged me through the sewers of London to safety.

Confident in my choice of action (or, rather, inaction), I occupied myself with a deck of cards, rehearsing the tricks I'd been learning from some of my fellow travelers. I envied at least one of them his facility with the cards; he'd cultivated the skill of ensuring that he knew which cards were being dealt – without ever seeing their faces – and had turned that ability to lucrative use.

Practising the sleight-of-hand did not prove quite as distracting as I had hoped. Of its own volition, my mind continued to ponder the consequences of my spontaneous revelation. Was Plunkett revolted by the thought, as his response would seem to indicate? Yet he had seemed quite unbothered during our discussion of Rochester and his 'flexible' tastes. Of course, a perversion practised by someone else is entirely different from the knowledge that the man sharing your lodgings has, apparently, designs upon your virtue.

I found myself fairly certain that when he returned, Plunkett would insist the subject never be raised again. I would, of course, agree. It was the least I could do for him, considering the depth of my feeling.

The fire was slowly dying, and the lateness of the hour had convinced me not to add another log; if he desired, Plunkett could stoke it for the night if...when...he returned. Instead, I performed my night-time ablutions and was preparing to climb beneath the coverlet when a quiet sound caught my attention.

Plunkett stepped in and latched the door behind himself, but he made no effort to move from his position just inside the door. "You're still here," he said simply. "I thought maybe you'd gone." His voice was soft, softer even than the shadowy outline of his form in the dying firelight.

"Did you wish me to go?" I asked, casting about me for my scattered clothing, fully prepared to dress and leave our rooms should that be what he required of me.

"No, no," he said quickly, "I was afraid you'd've got the wrong idea because of...well...how I left."

"What would have have me infer?" I was suddenly unsure. I wished that I could see more of his expression, but the fire was turned to mere embers, its light hardly better than the sparse moonlight that streamed through gaps in the shutters.

"I wasn't angry. I had to think." His tone was hesitant.

He fell silent and long remained so, until I had grown unnerved. Several times I opened my mouth to speak, but lost my resolve each time before I could express myself. Had I the courage, I could've been at his side in two strides, to touch him and pull him into my arms. Instead, I held myself still and silent, my body outwardly serene, but my mind filled with fear and anticipation in equal measure.

I wanted, most desperately, to ask him to what conclusion he had come, what was the result of his solitary thoughts? But I couldn't rush an answer from him; I knew he'd speak in his own time and until then I needed to hold my tongue and my impatience both in check.

There came the faintest rustle of fabric, a whisper of movement in the silent near-dark. The effort to make out the details of Plunkett's figure was doing nothing to aid my nerves, and so I closed my eyes and instead concentrated on the sound of my own breath.

So great was my inward contemplation that I started and opened my eyes when his hand came to rest on my arm. He sat himself beside me on the bed, feeling his way in the darkness. My heart was filled with silent rejoicing; he could not hate or loathe me and still keep so close to me!

"D'you remember," the words were near whispered, "when you asked me if I'd ever been in love?"

"Yes. You denied it, though later you spoke of Mary..." My own reply was equally quiet. The stillness had a quality all of its own, one that I was hesitant to break with either word or deed.

"Not a lie, not really, but not the truth either –" he started.

"What lie? What truth?" I interrupted him, trying to make sense of his words.

He pressed callused fingers briefly to my lips, their warmth lingering even after they were removed. "Jamie, listen to me. I loved Mary, but not romantically. She was my sister."

This time I waited for him to continue speaking, my breath held in anticipation of his words. Our conversation was not proceeding in the direction I had expected, and so I found myself uneasy.

"When'd I first realise it? When you were lying in the street and I held out my hand to you? Or maybe nursing your wounded leg?" He almost seemed to be musing to himself. With a half shake of his head, he continued, the movement apparently dispelling his thoughtful air. "When doesn't really matter, though, does it? What matters is what you said. Your 'contemplation' of my 'charms', right?"

At this point I could no longer remain silent. "You need explain no further, Will," I said. "Your feeling for me is obviously comradely, and for even this much I will be pleased. I will promise to never make mention of the subject again, if that will be of comfort to you. And," I added as the thought struck me, "we can make alternate arrangements for separate lodgings – this very night, if you wish."

My words fell into the silence and I wished desperately for some light – even a single candle would suffice – with which to see his face. Despite his apparent ease at our proximity, I once again found myself fearing he would respond with disgust.

"Jamie...." One word, filled with an emotion I couldn't identify, and then I felt his lips on mine, a tentative kiss that was almost immediately ended.

It was odd, how a kiss could feel so foreign and yet so familiar. His lips were firm and warm against mine, just as I'd imagined they would be. It was only the faint scratch of stubble-beard on his cheeks that reminded me of his sex.

Once again he forestalled me as I was about to break the silence. "I never felt like this about anyone before I met you," he said. "But you were blinded by Rebecca, so I settled for your friendship.

"Now you say you want me. Jamie, I couldn't stand having you an' then losing you to another Rebecca, another woman you loved."

I sat in stunned silence at his words. Could he truly believe that I had loved Rebecca? Well, why not, I reflected. I had believed that I loved her. More surprising was the other implication of his words. But I couldn't accept mere implications. He must be persuaded to tell me the unadorned truth of it. The night lent a dreamlike quality to our conversation, freeing us, perhaps, to speak words that would never have crossed our lips in the inelegant light of day.

"Speak plainly, Will, I beg you. This is of too great an import to cloud the issue with pettifogging words." I reached out to touch whatever part of him came under my hand – a thigh, warm and firm – and he did not pull away as I'd feared he might.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but fierce. "Plainly, then, I love you. I want you, in ways that'd make Rochester blush. But I don't want your lust without your love."

His words, and the intensity with which they were spoken, stunned me. My silence had to be as troublesome to him as his had been to me, but I simply couldn't think of what to say. I'm certain that my expression would have made speech unnecessary and, at that moment, I would have given my most dear possession for a single lighted taper.

But I had none and the fire had burnt to pale embers; therefore, word and touch must convey it all. I moved my hand from his thigh to his arm and pushed gently, encouraging him to lie upon the bed before moving to join him.

"You're already the recipient of my love; it is my desire for you that I've been late in discovering." I said between kisses, revelling in the feel of his body pressed against mine.

A hand caressed me most intimately and a sudden feeling of giddiness overtook me, as if I were suddenly free – well and truly free – for the first time in my life. I found I could still speak. "Rest assured that you shall remain the holder of my heart –" Stifling the urge to laugh out loud, I merely added: "– and my John Thomas!"


End file.
